


no room for sympathy

by apricots



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars: Before the Awakening - Greg Rucka
Genre: Angst, Brainwashing, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Child Soldiers, Doomed Relationship, Emotional Hurt, F/F, Hurt No Comfort, Origin Story, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, Unhappy Ending, a potentially dangerous level of empathy, stormtroopers in training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-19 09:49:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7356166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apricots/pseuds/apricots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Phasma in her years as a young stormtrooper-in-training. Everything she says about being a stormtrooper, she learned the hard way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no room for sympathy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Wavesinger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/gifts).



> [Origin: New Latin _phasma_ , from Ancient Greek _φάσμα_ (phasma, “apparition, phantom, omen, prodigy, monster”).]

"A real stormtrooper has no room for sympathy," she tells him.

His pauses tell her all she needs to know-- the attachment digging in deep under his skin, the quiet secret defiance he holds close to his chest. Even if he says, again, that he'll stop protecting FN-2003, he'll stop trying to help, he won't do it. It's his instinct, now.

Phasma feels an itch at the back of her neck when she looks at him, an uncomfortable familiar tug of recognition. He is making a mistake. The same mistake so many of them make. He'll have to learn the hard way, if he doesn't learn the easy way, that whatever he feels for Slip isn't important.

A broken link in a chain can compromise the whole thing, even just one. It doesn't matter if all the rest of the links on either side are strong-- the weakest link will still break, and it will fall apart. One piece of molding fruit in a basket of perfect ones can spoil the whole batch.

Still-- she doesn't write him up. Doesn't flag his file for insubordination. Doesn't send him to reconditioning. Every time she considers it, she feels that unpleasant itch at the back of her neck, that gut-wrenching flicker of recognition, and she can't bring herself to do it. He hasn't done anything wrong, yet.

He has to learn how to cut out his heart on his own. No one can force him to do it. It will happen, one way or another-- she knows it will, because he's just like her. Once it's done, he'll be perfect. Like her.

She hopes, for his sake-- with a quiet unacknowledged ache in her chest-- that he does it sooner rather than later.

 

***

 

 They call her Ghost. The nickname sticks to her pale eyes, pale hair, pale skin.

They pick up their nicknames as they go. Some of them get them early on, and don't remember where they come from. Some choose their own. Some don't get them until there's a reason to distinguish them from the rest of the children. Ghost can't remember who gave her the name, she acquired it so early in her life.

She doesn't like it. It's not correct. They must always be addressed by their numerical designations. That's how it works. She introduces herself, always, as CR-1161, as is appropriate.

Every time, CR-1111 chimes in-- leaning around her, her bright smile a sharp contrast to CR-1161's ever-expressionless face-- "She's Ghost. I'm Aces."

Every time, without fail.

Aces is, like a good soldier, exceedingly consistent.

They're shuffled around, early on. They move from class to class, unit to unit, rearranged and rearranged again over the years. They're never told how, exactly, their assignments are determined, nor are they told how often they will occur. There is no set schedule. Sometimes it's once a year, sometimes once a month. They are in motion, but nothing ever changes: their training is seamless, even though the teachers and rooms and students change. The material is what matters, and the material never falters. The Order is all that matters, and the Order never falters.

There is only one recurring face, one person that never changes. CR-1111. Aces is a constant; wherever Ghost goes, Aces always comes with her. They grow up alongside each other. After a while, Ghost simply starts to expect her, when she's reassigned. She is always there. She is always smiling. And she's always brushing against her arm, toeing the line between unacceptable fraternization and expected camaraderie: "She's Ghost, I'm Aces."

Aces is as different from Ghost as she could be. Even as they get older, she stays at least a few inches shorter than Ghost: never quite managing to keep up with how fast Ghost shoots ever upward, never quite at eye-level. Her skin is a warm brown, her hair black, her eyes dark; everything about her is warm, and everything about Ghost is cold.

Aces likes to socialize. She never quite breaks the rules, but she smiles a lot and talks a lot in a way that sets Ghost's teeth on edge every time she opens her mouth. The way she pushes the boundaries of what's allowed makes her instinctively uncomfortable.

Ghost never smiles.

It's dizzying, the way Aces easily pushes everyone into conversation. Everyone talks to her, no matter how hard they might try not to. Even Ghost, despite her clinging attachment to the rules, finds herself drawn into easy conversation. Aces has a pull as inexorable as gravity. Her warmth is as inviting as Ghost's cold is alienating.

It's never personal; there's nothing personal to talk about. They're children without childhood. Everything they have is exactly the same, and there's nothing to discuss. Their conversations are nothing-- just idle chatter about their lessons, their rankings-- but something about the way Aces radiates warmth makes it feel dangerous all the same.

 

***

 

They're ten years old, small and top of their class. They've always been top of all their classes, perfectly evenly matched, but this year is different. All year, everything they do, they get the exact same score-- not approximately, not _more or less,_ but the same.

It takes all year for Ghost to figure out that this is strange. They finish their final examinations, and they both got 97%.

Ghost sits stiffly upright in her chair, and Aces slouches. "Same score again," Aces says, holding up her datapad and grinning at her. Ghost gives her a hard look. The smile on Aces' face doesn't flicker for a moment. It never does. "Funny, right?"

She frowns at her, and says, "You've been doing this on purpose."

Aces laughs and puts her datapad back down on her desk so she can clap her hands together. "Yes! I am!"

"How?" Ghost asks, then her frown deepens. The more pressing question is, " _Why?_ "

"For fun," Aces says. As though this serves as any kind of explanation of anything. Ghost doesn't understand, and it must be plain on her face because Aces laughs again and shrugs. "All these lessons are too easy for me. I got bored."

For just a moment, her eyes glitter with something Ghost doesn't recognize. Her smile goes sharp, and she tilts her head to the side, propping it up on her hand. "I didn't think it would take you a whole _year_ to figure it out. It's funny."

"Is it?" Ghost asks.

"Yeah. You didn't even wonder about it 'til now, did you?" Aces asks. "Even though you're supposed to be smart."

CR-1161 stares at her for a long time, jaw clenched too tight.

Aces leans over, grinning too broad, and says, "It didn't even occur to you to be suspicious, right? It never occurs to anyone to be suspicious. It's bad for you, though. You should practice, if you ever wanna be put in charge of anything. You'll never get set on a command track if you don't learn to think for yourself."

"Command?" Ambition is forbidden. They aren't meant to want anything. Ghost feels, uncomfortably, that Aces can see through her.

"I think you'd be good," Aces says.

She cannot be suspicious. What is there to be suspicious of? The Order is absolute. The Order is cannot be questioned. But she learns, perhaps, to think more carefully about things. To examine them more closely. She learns to be wary _._

She tells herself that it's different.

 

***

 

They are twelve years old and their cohort advances unevenly through their training. It can't be helped; they're at an age where difference is to be expected. They are growing at different rates, getting taller and growing up. Soon, they will be soldiers. Soon, their real training begins. For now: hand-to-hand unarmed combat.

Hand-to-hand combat comes easily to Ghost: not so much to Aces.

This is the first time they're anything but equals. The difference is annoying, the slight asymmetry; when Ghost kicks her legs out from under her and Aces falls, there's no satisfaction in victory. Aces winces and rubs her surely-aching leg; she offers no complaint, of course, but her breathing is more ragged and her brow is more furrowed and her skin is more bruised than it ought to be.

"You're not getting better fast enough," CR-1161 says, and holds out her hand. Aces clasps her forearm and pulls herself back to her feet and, for once, she doesn't smile.

"I'll catch up," she says.

"Yes, you will." Ghost keeps her hold on Aces' arm. She looks at her, chews on her lower lip, and then glances away when she says, "I'll practice with you after hours."

It's not against the rules, not really.

They are, _collectively_ , tasked with becoming the best soldiers they can be. What matters above all else is the Order, the army, the unit-- the collective before the individual. The strength of the Order is dependent on an absence of weakness. It is their responsibility to root out weakness and purge it from their ranks. If she can prevent Aces from becoming a liability, then she can dispel any chance of her termination and thus save the Order a lost soldier. They will be stronger for it.

It's not against the rules. If anything, it's her responsibility. Her duty. As the top of the class, she has a responsibility to teach the others whatever she can. Her skill is useless if it serves her alone; it's best if she can improve everyone around her, as well, whether by leading by example or by directly teaching them.

If she _can_ help, she _must_ help.

Aces' eyes widen slightly. She opens her mouth and no sound comes out, and the hesitation is infectious. The offer of help, simple and practical, takes on a meaning she didn't intend. She is so surprised, so taken aback, that it feels like she _has_ done something wrong.

Ghost has never offered to help anyone before. She tells herself: _because no one has ever needed it. There is no significance._

More meaning seems to pile on the longer Aces is rendered speechless. It's not personal. She doesn't have a person. Nothing could be personal. Still, an itch at the back of her neck tells her to pull back, to put distance between them, and she starts to withdraw.

At the slightest movement, though, Aces suddenly grips her arm tighter. "Thank you," she says. "I'll try to learn quickly."

They step back, assume their starting positions once more, and-- a crack appears in her training, at the spot where Aces has been slowly chipping away for years. Ghost smiles.

"You'll owe me," she says.

Aces inclines her head and gives her an answering smile. "I'm good for it."

 

Every sound becomes too loud at night. There is work being done elsewhere on the _Equalizer_ , but here in their section it is dark and silent. The ever-present hum of machinery is the only sound anywhere in their living quarters.

They're old enough now to be trusted to go between their bedroom, the fresher, the kitchen, and the mess themselves. Their doors aren't locked at night. There's no reason for anyone to be in the mess late at night, but the option exists. Aces and Ghost have the place to themselves.

The sounds of their bodies hitting the floor, their breathing, their quiet voices, are all sharp and crystal clear in the quiet night. The emptiness and the darkness and the hush that hangs over it all makes it feel not quite real. The rules feel far away and inapplicable, when it's just the two of them.

It's weeks of late nights and too many bruises until Aces catches up again, and somewhere in there it starts being normal for Ghost to smile back when Aces grins. It's a bad habit, but it sticks; like Aces, like the name, like so many bad habits tend to do.

 

***

 

She is fourteen and she is on solid ground for the first time in her life. Their shuffle and reassignment this time scatters her cohort across moons and planets, not just the inside of the _Equalizer._

Away from the strictly controlled sterile environment on the _Equalizer,_ there's a lot to adjust to. The temperature, the air, the gravity, the ecosystem-- it goes on and on and on. They're expected to suck it up and push through the adjustment period, and they have been. Aces isn't the only one who got sick, but she is the only one _still_ sick.

Halfway through a morning run with their whole class, Aces collapses on the floor, wheezing and clutching her chest. She's covered in sweat, soaked through her clothes, trembling and coughing. Ghost is sweating, too, and breathing harder than she normally would. Everything feels too heavy. She's not sick like Aces is, though.

She moves on instinct. She stops and turns and she's halfway to a crouch, hand half extended to help her up, when the sharp rebuke comes: "CR-1161. Get back in formation."

She freezes.

_What am I doing?_

Instinct never moves her to do something so obviously contrary to what she's supposed to do. She has been ordered to get back in formation, and everything in her is screaming underneath her skin to do as she's told.

_But--_

They would have her keep going, and leave Aces on the floor. She's not sure they would even provide help to get her to the med center. She could get worse, when she doesn't need to. In the worst case scenario, she could die when she doesn't have to.

Still, the order rings in her ears: _get back in formation._ She has her orders.

Aces doesn't _have_ to die. She doesn't _have_ to be sick. There's nothing wrong with her, no more so than the rest of them. It's not fair. It's not _correct._

_get back in formation get back in formation get back in formation_

Ghost doesn't need to finish her run as much as Aces needs to go to a doctor. Finishing this one particular task is not a priority. As much as she can understand the principle of the thing, it's not right to put Aces in real physical danger for the sake of that principle. Aces is valuable to the Order. It's in the best interests of everyone that Aces get better. It's the better decision for the Order.

_Unnecessary casualties will be avoided._

She flicks her tongue out over her lips. She is fourteen years old and gangly and she has never said _no_ in her life. Just thinking it is enough to set her heart pounding, her head aching. The word catches in her throat. She can't move. Conditioned obedience and conditioned loyalty are at odds with each other, and she is paralyzed with anxiety.

Aces makes a noise like she's drowning on dry land. That makes it easier.

Ghost says, "No."

She takes Aces' arms and hauls her up to her feet. When she wraps her arm around her waist and drapes Aces' arm over her shoulders, it's the most physical contact she has ever had with anyone in her life. It's closer than they're supposed to get, ever. The feeling of Aces' feverish sweat-damp skin against hers is unpleasant and too-warm. Her heart beats too fast in her ears and her breathing is shaky and she feels like she might collapse, but she stays steady and strong and holds Aces up. They can't both collapse. Aces is too wobbly to hold her own weight, so Ghost holds it for her.

Her commanding officer takes a step towards her, jaw set, eyes hard.  Every word out of his mouth is crisp and flat. "CR-1161, what are you doing."

Once again, she speaks past the pressure strangling her. "I'm taking CR-1111 to receive medical attention, sir," she says. "I will report to you afterwards to receive my punishment."

"Drop her."

It's a direct order, but she's already made her decision. To back down now would be cowardice. To back down now would be a lack of commitment. She knows what's best for the Order, and she's going to do it. There will be consequences, and she will accept them. Later.

This time it's a little less difficult: "No."

She turns, and she leaves, doing her best to keep her back straight and her steps quick, even though Aces is actually quite heavy and she feels like she's going to faint from the terror.

Aces's head lolls against her shoulder like she can't even keep her head up. "Thank you, Ghost," she mumbles hoarsely. "For... even though you'll get in trouble..."

"You owe me," Ghost says. "Again."

Aces nods and coughs out something that might be a laugh.

 

The two weeks of isolation and the accompanying correctional program are a gentle slap on the wrist, considering the offense, which means she isn't _really_ in trouble. She feels comfortable knowing that someone higher up saw and understood that what she did was Correct.

Knowing that the punishment is a mild one doesn't help ease the discomfort of the thing, though. She's never done anything wrong before.

The correctional material, large stern holograms of the Supreme Leader lecturing her on loyalty, change very little. If anything, she feels more certain that what she did was correct. Her loyalty is unwavering. She did it for the good of the Order.

Aces is a genius. This is just a fact, as solid and verifiable as her very existence. To let that go to waste for no good reason would be irresponsible and unjust. And, after all, the obedience of a stormtrooper isn't like the obedience of a droid. If they wanted unthinking machines, they would be manufacturing their army instead of training it. A human soldier is advantageous because they can think, and reason, and determine the best course of action independently while keeping in mind the principles and goals of the Order.

No-- it isn't the holograms that bother her. It's the isolation. The isolation is the real punishment.

Isolation is a dull itch. A sense of wrongness in the order of things. Everything is frighteningly quiet. When she walks, she hears only one set of footsteps. When she breathes, there is no one breathing with her. The constant presence of bodies around her, moving in time with her, is something she has always taken for granted. She's never been alone before, after all. Not once, not that she can remember. They all walk together, sleep together, eat together, shower together.

Without other trainees nearby, she feels off-balance. Going through her days without Aces around every corner is like a large chunk of herself has been ripped away. She's just a piece of a puzzle; without the other pieces, she's nothing at all. Outside of the context of a unit, she doesn't make any sense.

The silence terrifies her. If only she can hear herself, how can she know she's real? If she isn't anything, and no one sees or hears her, she really is just a ghost. By the end of the two weeks, she's jittery and anxious to get back.

When she steps back into the living quarters, everything in the world clicks back into place and she can breathe again. Her class moves around her, breathing and alive and familiar, and she is once again fitted into her proper place. She is back where she belongs, filling the space that she fits precisely into.

Dangling her feet off her bunk-- Aces is always top bunk, Ghost always bottom-- Aces grins down at her. She is fully recovered, Ghost can tell immediately. She's not shaking or coughing, and her smile is alive and bright and strong as ever. Ghost decides that the warmth that blooms in her chest when she sees Aces' face is the comfort of familiarity, the relief of being back where she belongs, the knowledge that she did the right thing-- any number of things it's allowed to be. It is, of course, distinctly not something it can't be.

"Hey," Aces says, when they're sent to brush their teeth and wash up before lights-out. The sound of her voice is as much of a relief as the sight of her face. Ghost flicks her eyes to her and doesn't turn her head. She nods, slightly. She can't speak while she's brushing her teeth.

Aces puts her hand on Ghost's shoulder. The contact startles her, but at the same time she feels strangely grateful for it. She is real. She is here. Aces' hand doesn't just phase right through her. The warmth of her hand is mild, since she's not burning up with a fever any more. Ghost thinks it's pleasant, for a moment, but that thought is immediately followed by a distinctly unpleasant ringing in her ears.

Aces says, "It's good to have you back."

Ghost spits her mouthful of toothpaste and says, "It's good to be back."

 

***

 

They have their unit. The people they will train with, live with, fight with, die with. This will be their last reassignment for a long time: their real lives are about to begin. They are high ranking trainees, solidly exceptional; when they tell her this, Ghost feels a flush of pride. The flush of pride turns into a delighted smile when they tell her that this means she's going to be an Inquisitor.

She doesn't ask if Aces is coming with her. She doesn't need to. Aces is always there. She is a constant.

When she arrives at her new barracks, there she is: leaning against the wall outside the door, arms crossed over her chest, waiting for her. Like always.

"Hey, you," Aces says warmly. She pushes off the wall and steps forward, and instinct freezes Ghost in place. Words stick in her throat.

They're sixteen years old, and Ghost can't stop thinking about how beautiful Aces is.

The deep brown of her eyes, the muscles shifting under her skin as she moves, the slight curve of her waist, the arch of her nose: Ghost's eyes catch on all of it. It distracts her. No matter what she's doing, she loses track of it for a moment if she happens to look at Aces.

She happens to look at Aces quite a bit.

This is never something that she used to think about much. It's not something she has ever learned how to think about. Beauty has never been a part of her life, and it never will be. They'll all be wearing helmets, because they're all the same. What their individual faces look like isn't important, not in any real way. Faces don't matter. Nothing is beautiful.

Except for Aces.

Instinct shuts down the urge to touch her, but the desire for closeness never really goes away. She still _wants_. She can't make herself stop that-- not yet, anyway. She's certainly trying. It would be easier, she imagines, if Aces would stop doing the things she does.

"Let's go introduce ourselves," Aces says. It's a relief to know that she can't tell what's going on under Ghost's expressionless face-- or if she can, she has the grace not to show it.

She nods, curtly, and they walk through the door to their new quarters together.

The words are worn-in and comfortable, now, an easy familiar rhythm. She introduces herself with her designation not because she expects anyone to use it-- she's rather outgrown that particular fairytale by now-- but because to not do so would be to break from routine. Ghost is nothing if not a creature of habit.

"CR-1161."

"She's Ghost, and I'm Aces," Aces says, and wraps her arm around Ghost's shoulders. Ghost is taller and growing faster than her, as she always has, but she's still close enough in height that Aces can reach her shoulder and press her against her side.

The contact makes her mind go completely blank. She does not move or say anything. She can't. Next to her, Aces is too close and too beautiful. She's not sure what she would do if she were to move, but she knows it's not good.

With a lazy two-fingered salute, Aces adds, "Designation CR-1111."

Her movements are fluid, casual, easy. Her smile is crooked and magnetic.

Ghost knows she should lean away; instead, she stays right where she is.

 

***

 

As Inquisitors, they're expected to be better. The best. When you're hunting potential Jedi, you have to be the best. This is work with an extremely high mortality rate. As their vids and teachers and books and lectures tell them, repeatedly: Inquisitors are either the best of the best, or they're dead. They have to be better in every way than an average stormtrooper.

They are divided into specializations, their training adjusted to suit who they ought to be in their Inquisitorial squad: a pilot, a sniper, a mechanic. Differences, now, are beneficial. They provide them with purpose. What once seemed almost against the rules is now valuable to them: Aces will be an interrogator, her warm magnetic air put to use for information-gathering.

Ghost will be in command.

As Inquisitors, they will actually be interacting with people. Not just members of the First Order: citizens of the Republic, noncombatants, criminals. They have to learn about the galaxy, not just in terms of history but in terms of culture and language and geography.

The massive sudden increase of information they're expected to learn is initially overwhelming. For the first time, their material is available to them outside of the classroom; they have tablets, now, with access to a massive library of carefully organized information. They have to learn all of it. They have in-depth training simulations to complete as a team, as well. They're expected to complete the standard cadet training in less than half the time as the rest of the army, so that they can move on to the Inquisitorial training missions.

This is no small task. Their schedule is grueling. Their instructors are relentless. They do not have free time the way other cadets their age might have. Inquisitorial training has a high rate of failure, even higher than the mortality rate; the work is too hard, the freedom too much, and it fosters anxiety and resentment. Ghost is told to carefully watch for any problems, emotional or otherwise, and to report any that come up immediately.

"Keep a particular eye on CR-1111," they tell her.

Aces, finally allowed to learn at her own pace, tears through the written material at an astonishing pace. She's no longer concerned about toning herself down to look less exceptional. She's not bored any more.

With the written material, she's incredible. On paper, she's the best. But Aces is lagging in the mission simulations. She's out of breath before the rest of them, she's not as engaged as everyone else, she doesn't respond as quickly to Ghost's rapid-fire commands. She's slower. She's weaker. She's not _bad,_ but she's not keeping pace and the more they train, the more the gap widens. Soon it will be large enough that it will be a problem. It frustrates Ghost to no end. She knows Aces can do better. She doesn't want to have to report her. She doesn't want Aces to be a problem.

 

"CR-1111," she snaps, turning sharply to face her as soon as the simulation is finished. Aces takes off her helmet and combs a hand through her hair, breathless but not at all guilty or bothered. Ghost jabs an armor-clad finger at her. "You're too slow. You dragged down the entire unit's performance ranking."

"Only by a few seconds," Aces says. "I was right behind you."

"I didn't ask for excuses," she says severely. "You obviously struggled to keep pace with the rest of the unit for the entirety of the exercise."

CR-1318-- Twitch-- clears his throat loudly. "CR-1161," he says. "Do we all need to be here for this?"

Ghost flicks her hand at him; even her gestures are curt and brief. "No. You're all dismissed," she says shortly. They salute and leave, muttering to each other.

Aces and Ghost stand alone in the last room of the training course, a small featureless box with their completion time displayed on the wall in large glowing numbers. The timer stops when all of them are through the last laser barrier; Aces was last, delayed by several entire seconds, knocking their team's performance down to fourth-best overall. If she'd been keeping up, they would have been second.

Aces leans against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. She looks stubborn and defiant, and Ghost gets the sinking feeling that she won't actually be able to talk Aces into doing better. "I feel fine about my performance," she says. "I didn't make any real mistakes. We completed the objective. Our time was good."

Ghost hisses in a breath through her teeth and says, "You stumbled. You struggled to catch your breath. Keeping up with the rest of us has been getting noticeably more difficult for you over the past two months." She doesn't raise her voice-- not ever-- but she still sounds upset. There's more emotion in her voice than there usually is, and it sounds wrong. It sounds bad. Her ears start ringing.

Aces' mouth twitches into a crooked grin. "Almost sounds like you're worried about me," she says.

Ghost is grateful, then, that she kept her helmet on and Aces can't see the way her face heats up and her mouth opens wordlessly. "I-- am not worried about you," she grinds out, but Aces doesn't look convinced. Her smile only widens, which in turn makes her more flustered. "I am only concerned about-- your-- your performance. And its effect on this unit as well as its effect on your future as a-- as a stormtrooper."

Aces raises her eyebrows. "Of course," she drawls. "Purely professional, right? Nothing personal."

"That's correct."

"Take off your helmet," Aces says.

Ghost knows that her face will betray her. It shouldn't, but it will. She says, "No."

She hopes, dimly, that maybe Aces won't insist, but she ought to know better by now. Aces never leaves anything alone, and she especially never leaves Ghost alone. She steps forward very abruptly, startling Ghost into stepping back. "What--"

"If you're all business, then wouldn't it be better to look me in the eye so I know you're serious?" Aces moves forward again and Ghost practically leaps backwards in her haste to get away. Unperturbed, Aces backs her up against the wall and stops painfully close to Ghost, just barely not plastered up against her chest.

She's pretty. Ghost wishes she didn't think that right now, but she does and she can't get herself to stop looking at her and thinking about how pretty she is. Words die in her throat and when Aces gently lifts her helmet off she still can't think of a single thing to say besides _you are so pretty._

Aces drops her helmet on the floor and says, "There. Now tell me again you're not worried about me."

Her stony-faced composure is gone entirely; Ghost is flushed and wide-eyed and scrambling for something non-suspicious to say. "I'm not," she says. "Worried about you."

"You're lying," Aces says-- more an amused statement of fact than an accusation. Then, just as mildly, she says the worst thing she could possibly say: "Ghost, you like me."

It's true-- too true-- and Ghost wishes she could stuff the words back into Aces' mouth. She wants her to un-say them. The truth out loud is too loud, too sharp, too real. Saying it out loud seems to make it more true than it would have been, were it left unsaid.

But now it's there, and it's spoken, and Aces knows.

"I do like you," Ghost says. "And I am worried that you will be reassigned if you continue to perform poorly."

"That's good. I like you, too," Aces puts her hands on Ghost's face and rocks up onto tiptoe so they're closer to eye level, smiling broadly. The ringing in Ghost's ears gets worse, but it doesn't seem to matter as much when she looks for long enough into Aces' bright perfect face. "Can I kiss you?"

Ghost blinks, slowly, considering.

"You shouldn't," she says. "It would be against the rules."

"I don't care. It's harmless."

She seems weightless, completely unfazed. Ghost wonders how she looks so happy. Her head aches fiercely, muscles screaming that she has to leave. She's sweating. _Back in formation._ Her hands start to shake a little bit.

Aces is right. It's harmless. It doesn't matter. It won't affect anything besides them. Nothing besides the two of them matters.

"Sure," she says, and Aces kisses her.

Ghost doesn't really know what to do about it, but she knows with a certainty that this is _good_ and it's _what she wants_ and also that it's _absolutely the worst._ Her hands twitch, and she's not sure what to do with them, so she puts them on Aces' armor-clad waist.

It's so far from what she's supposed to be doing it's physically painful, but she stays where she is. "I ought to report the both of us," Ghost murmurs, and knows at the same time that she won't be doing that. Not under any circumstances. Nobody needs to know. It's harmless.

Aces laughs like it doesn't matter and kisses her again.

 

***

 

It doesn't change everything; it's hardly different at all. It feels natural and easy, slipping her fingers between Aces' and tugging her aside to kiss her against the wall, sitting close enough that their shoulders touch, falling asleep with her head on Aces' shoulder after hours of reading.

If the others notice, they don't show it and they don't say anything about it. Ghost feels certain that it's obvious; every time she looks at Aces her mouth twitches into a smile and she feels her voice softening even when she tries to keep it hard and stern. Every time they do anything, they touch.

They really are, more than ever, two halves of a whole. They're a unit, more so than the rest of their squad. Ghost knows how Aces moves, her habits, her techniques. She knows without looking where Aces is-- she has an instinctive awareness of Aces, like she's a part of her body. A phantom limb.

Aces is physically the weakest member of the squad, but Ghost builds around that. She knows exactly what she's capable of, so she uses that to make sure that Aces never looks like she's fallen behind. This is what she's good at.

She memorizes the others, too, and after about a year of concentrated effort she knows them almost as well-- she can make them better than they are individually. That's what it means to be a commander of stormtroopers. They trust her with their lives, and she makes them the best of the best.

 

***

 

Their first mission is simple. There is a village that has sprung up around an ancient Jedi temple on the outskirts of the New Republic. It's full of Force-sensitive cultists, clustering together where they think no one will notice them. They're dangerous, though the New Republic stubbornly insists they aren't necessarily. The First Order are the only ones keeping these people under control.

The mission is perfectly straightforward: kill them all.

They all try to stay professional during their briefing, but Ghost's the only one who really keeps it together. Twitch practically vibrates out of his seat, Teks can't keep her eager smile off her face, and Aces--

Aces frowns.

The first mission is usually where cadets go wrong. Their first taste of actual combat sometimes shatters everything apart-- units break, cadets wash out, and things change. Even Inquisitorial squads. Ghost is supposed to be on particular high alert, looking for any sign that things are about to go wrong-- but she doesn't have to be looking for it to feel when something is off with Aces.

She gives her time, but Aces doesn't stop frowning. Her movements are slow and off-kilter, like she's lost the rhythm of how she usually moves and doesn't know how to get it back. While they're standing on the transport ship, identical behind their armor, Ghost leans in close.

"CR-1111," she says. "You seem off."

Aces is completely still for a moment, and then shrugs. "It's nothing. I'm just nervous."

It doesn't register as significant, the first time she kills someone. She doesn't even notice which one of the Force-users it is that she's killed-- they're all the same, really. Faceless screaming things, pointlessly desperate. She pays more attention to Aces, watching with her teeth gritted for any sign of breaking. Something feels off, still, like a string pulled too tight. Shaking. About to snap.

It's the first mission that's the most likely to cause problems. If they can just make it through this one, they'll be a real squad.

Nothing goes wrong on the first mission. They kill the villagers, reduce the village to corpses and ashes and rubble, and then they're done. It goes smoothly, because it's easy, and Aces doesn't do anything out of the ordinary. Ghost doesn't see her miss, doesn't see her falter.

Aces' hands are still shaking when they're back at the base, still shaking when they're taking off their armor. They're shaking too hard to undo the clasps and buckles, so Ghost does it for her. Her fingers brush Aces' when she takes hold of the clasp she's fumbling with. It's a soft small touch, nothing anyone would notice, but Aces still twitches away from it.

"Thank you," she says. Her voice is strained, nothing at all like her usual unflappable drawl. She stands there, fidgeting in silence, while Ghost takes her armor off for her. The air is heavy with the quiet. Ghost isn't sure what to say, but Aces seems determined to stay quiet and strange and shaky. This is a little bit annoying; does she think Ghost won't notice? Does she think she's doing a good job of hiding it?

"You're upset," she says.

After struggling for a moment, Aces turns to her and says, "We did something terrible."

It takes a moment of puzzling for Ghost to even comprehend what she said. She doesn't understand what she's talking about, and tries desperately to think of what mistake she might have made that gave them away to their superiors before she realizes Aces is talking about the mission. "We completed the objective," she says.

"We killed a lot of people," Aces snaps. "Children-- _children,_ Ghost! They were defenseless! It wasn't a military target, they had no weapons, they had nothing-- they were just-- this was a war crime, you know that, right?"

Her voice is strained. Shaking under the weight of emotion. She's very seriously upset-- Ghost frowns. This is what she was worried about. This is something she needs to report. If she can dispel the problem immediately, she won't have to. If she can deal with this on her own-- they're supposed to be able to deal with this on their own. This doesn’t have to escalate into something unacceptable.

Patiently, she reminds Aces, "They were Force-users. They didn't need weapons to be dangerous. They were a threat to galactic order. They created an imbalance in the Force. It had to be corrected. Military affiliation has nothing to do with anything."

It doesn't seem to help. It just seems to make Aces more upset. "We killed defenseless children," she says again, as though that's the most important thing. She stares into Ghost's face like she's looking for something. "Do you really not feel-- you don't even feel _bad?_ "

Because it's Aces and she knows she would want her to, Ghost considers the question instead of dismissing it flat-out. Does she feel bad? She feels... concerned for Aces, worried that her emotional outburst will cost her her place in the squad, but not bad about the mission itself. They did as they were told. They completed the objective. It was not a very big village, so it wasn't particularly tiring.

Force-users are difficult to control. They can't even control themselves-- any strong emotion can cause immense destruction. They're dangerous. On their own, they're out of control and volatile. In organized groups, teaching each other control, they're doomed to follow in the footsteps of the orders before them. The tyranny of the Sith, the chaos of the Jedi-- neither can be allowed to regain a foothold in the galaxy. They would destroy everything all over again. Those children would have grown up to be agents of chaos. Of disorder. They had to be eliminated before the situation worsened.

"No," Ghost says. "I don't feel bad."

Aces takes a step back, staring at her like she's a stranger. "You--" she starts, but stops. Whatever she's about to say, she seems to reconsider. She just stares at her, mouth slightly open, eyes too bright.

"I don't understand why you're so upset," Ghost says. The depth of her lack of understanding is uncomfortable. She feels, for the first time, that she and Aces are in some way fundamentally different. The gap between them seems to be widening every second. She wants to grab her and pull her back towards her, to hold her face and kiss her until she stops looking at her like that, but she doesn't. Instead, she says, as gently as she can, "Perhaps you should report to the psychiatric support services."

Aces blinks a few times, and she presses her hands over her face. "No," she says. "No, I'm fine. Don't worry about it."

"I am worried about it. You know I'm obligated to report these kinds of--"

Aces cuts her off, voice harsh and sharp. "Report me, then. I don't care."

Ghost twitches back a step, taken aback by the unexpected hostility. It stings like a physical wound. "I'm not going to," she says quietly. "I trust you."

It's only then that Aces takes her hands away from her face and looks at her like she's the person she knows. She's not bristling or horrified any more, but instead there's something soft and sad in her eyes that some dim hesitant corner of Ghost's brain identifies as _pity._

"I'm sorry," she says.

Ghost isn't sure what she's apologizing for, exactly, but she's relieved that Aces doesn't hate her. They walk back to their room together, and Aces slowly-- almost deliberately-- slides back into her familiar rhythm.

It's not their squad's first mission that tears them apart.

It's the second.

 

***

 

They're eighteen years old and if they succeed in this mission they will be officially Inquisitors. Ghost towers over almost everyone she meets, six feet tall and still growing. It's a good thing she's in command, because that's what everyone who sees them assumes. Her stiff movements and sharp barked commands have rounded edges in a way that only her squad can detect-- she is soft _er_ , not soft. She makes confident eye contact with commanding officers, filled with a certainty she has grown over the past few year.

If they succeed, they will be Inquisitors. If they fail-- it doesn't matter. They won't fail. Diamond Squad hasn't ever failed at anything.

They are sent on a hunt in Republic City. A proper hunt-- one that will take time and planning and subtlety. Otra Sellac, a Twi'lek smuggler, has been selling weapons to the growing resistance movement against the First Order. He's been staying on Hosnian Prime, shielded by the Republic's refusal to allow the First Order to police there, so they can't let anyone know they're stormtroopers. They have one week in the city to find him, interrogate him, and execute him.

Sellac is careful, and not easy to find. A week isn't much time at all; Twitch almost complains, but Ghost silences him with a look. They can do it.

They split up, both to cover more ground and to look less suspicious. The others are less conspicuous than she is; not so towering, not so pale, not so stony-faced.

 Even in street clothes, Ghost feels distinctly out of place on the streets of Republic City. Even with layers of leather and cloth between her skin and the air, she feels exposed and vulnerable without her armor, without her helmet. It's too crowded. Too dangerous. She looks off, because she's extremely tense, hands clenched into fists in her pockets. There's too many factors she can't account for. She isn't accustomed to being alone in unsecured locations, surrounded by people. She's exposed to attack from every possible angle.

In her ear, Aces sighs. "This place is so diverse. You ever wish you'd gotten to grow up someplace like this?"

"No," Twitch says flatly. "Aliens keep trying to sell me slimy garbage."

"Cut the chatter. We have work to do," Ghost says. Their communications link isn't supposed to be used for casual conversation; everything they say will be monitored and reviewed after they're done. Too much talk might get them reprimanded.

"You're no fun," Aces says. Ghost can hear the broad toothy grin in her voice.

They have a place in one of the towering apartment buildings, but they're never all there at once. They come back only to sleep and check in. In three days, Aces hasn't come back once. Ghost is loathe to admit it, but she supposes she misses her; being alone doesn't suit her. She feels like half a person. Hearing Aces' voice makes her ache to be next to her again-- she wants to _see_ her, to be near her, to have her falling into step beside her.

 _Just a few more days_ , she reminds herself.

"Actually, I opened the line because I have a lead," Aces says. "And I was wondering if CR-1161 could give me some backup."

Still making her way through the crowded street, Ghost blinks and asks, "What's the lead?"

"An address."

"How'd you find it?"

"You know. Asking around," Aces says vaguely. "Doesn't matter. I'll forward it to you, meet me there."

"Can you give me more information on it? Where am I meeting you? Is this an address for Sellac or an associate or--"

"It's an apartment, supposedly he hides out there sometimes."

Ghost sighs and rolls her eyes, privately annoyed at Aces' stubborn resistance to being specific. "I'll meet you there, then."

 

An hour later she's in the dingiest apartment building she's seen in her life, warily eyeing every door she passes. Seeing Aces is a relief-- leaning against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, like she always is. She doesn't smile like she always does, though.

"Hey," she says. She sounds nervous-- her voice shakes a little bit. Ghost frowns at the tremor in her voice, and steps closer to check for injuries. Aces holds out her hands, palms out, a strange appeasing motion, and Ghost's frown deepens. "So, uh-- you're not going to like this, but just-- I want you to promise to listen."

"Listen to what?" Ghost asks.

"Hands behind your head, trooper," snaps a voice behind her, and a blaster presses against the middle of her back.

Ghost freezes, staring at Aces. She looks apologetic, with an anxious half-smile. She does not pull out the blaster she has at her hip. She doesn't move to help at all.

Her instincts scream _traitor,_ but she knows better. Aces must be doing this for a reason. She must be undercover, or something like that. Ghost slowly raises her hands up and locks them together behind her head, staring at Aces all the while.

"No sudden movements," Aces tells her, and opens the door behind her. "Don't freak out. You trust me, right?"

"Of course," Ghost says.

The one with the blaster-- Weequay, shorter than her, male, from the sound of it-- pushes her through the door into a small apartment. Their target-- Sellac-- is inside. The room is sparsely furnished, with just a table and a few storage crates. Ghost's eyes flick around the room. Two doors, one leading to a half-kitchen, the other she can't tell. One large open window. There's just two enemy combatants, both armed. She could disarm the Weequay easily, and Aces could take the Twi'lek-- it would be a matter of minutes. She tries to catch Aces' eye, to give her a signal, but she's not looking at her. She's looking at the Twi'lek.

Sellac looks her up and down, eyebrows raised, and then gives Aces a look. "This is your friend?" he asks.

"Her name is Ghost," Aces says. It feels like being punched in the throat-- that Aces would say her name out loud like that, _here,_ with _these people_. Why would she do that? Why would she ever do that?

_Stormtroopers don't have names._

"It's CR-1161," she says stiffly.

The target is standing right there, and Aces isn't doing anything. She's not even talking to him. She's talking to her. "It's okay," Aces says, earnestly. "Listen, Ghost. I know this is sudden, but-- I mean, we've never been able to talk about it before, so of course it's sudden, but-- I'm leaving. With them."

Ghost blinks, slowly.

_TRAITOR._

"Leaving," she repeats.

"I know you're probably going to be upset about this, but if you can just take a minute to think about what you actually want. This is our chance. Sellac says the Resistance would take us in. He can get us off Hosnian Prime and away from the Order, for good, and--"

She must be mishearing. The words coming out of Aces' mouth sound like nonsense-- they're barely comprehensible. "What are you talking about?"

Aces combs both of her hands through her hair and swallows, looking more anxious with every passing second. "I-- I'm leaving the First Order. I'm joining the Resistance. You can come with me," She steps forward, and Ghost doesn't move at all. She can't. "We can leave now. Together."

This isn't a trick or a mistake.

Aces is a traitor.

The realization is sharp and physically painful. It splinters in her ears and her eyes and her throat. She tastes bile in the back of her throat. Everything crashes on top of her at once, pain and emptiness and betrayal washing over her. How could this have happened? How could this be happening? It can't be, but it is. The proof is right there. Aces, looking at her, a stranger's eyes gleaming in a familiar face.

She is a traitor, and she is defecting, and not only is it Ghost's mandate to kill her but it is her _responsibility_. CR-1111 is on her squad. This is her fault. She should have seen it coming.

"I know it's hard to think past what they've told you you want, but please try. For me."

Her voice burns Ghost's skin. The warmth in it is sickening. She's a liar. She's a traitor. She's rotten. Poison.

Movements quick and precise, almost mechanical, Ghost grabs the blaster from the Weequay behind her and shoots him in the head.

"Wait!" Aces shouts. When Ghost turns, she sees that Aces has planted herself between Ghost and Sellac. His pistol is drawn and pointed at her. Aces shoots him a dirty look and snaps, "Don't shoot her, she just needs a minute to think!"

Ghost points the blaster at her.

Traitors have to be executed. She can't let a valuable resource fall into enemy hands.

"She just killed Rhio!"

"This is a difficult process!"

Her hands are shaking.

Aces steps towards her, hands outstretched like she's an out-of-control animal. "Ghost, listen. You don't have to stay. We can go away, and it'll all be over. We won't have to hide any more. We won't have to slaughter children. We can have names, and wear clothes, and have opinions. This is a chance most troopers never get, but-- we can stop this from happening to anyone else. Come with me."

Her smile, her long-lashed eyes, the soft warmth of her skin on hers--

For just a moment, she thinks of leaving.

The thought of being separated from her is terrifying. Just an endless stretch of emptiness, of _nothing_ where she is supposed to be. Even now, they're breathing at the same time, two halves of one person. A lifetime without ever seeing her again, a lifetime without ever hearing her voice again--

No.

It doesn't matter.

Her loyalty is, above all, to the First Order.

CR-1161 shoots.

Aces dodges and, with a miserable twist of her mouth, draws her own blaster. "I'm sorry," she says, and shoots her in the leg. Pain shoots up her spine, accompanied by the smell of burning cloth and flesh. CR-1161 falls onto the table with a sharp bitten-off noise. While she's off-balance, Aces shoves Sellac towards the window with her free hand and shouts, " _Run!_ "

CR-1161 shoves herself up and touches her fingers to her earpiece. Aces and Sellac are already out the window and on their way. They have a head start. "Diamond Squad. CR-1111 has defected and is attempting to escape with the target," Her voice is strained, more audibly emotional than it has ever been with them. "I am in pursuit. They're headed for the spaceport."

" _What??_ "

"Aces-- that-- what? Say again, CR-1161?"

CR-1161 leaps out of the window and lands in a low crouch. Pain rockets up her side, and she ignores it and sets off at a run. Aces and Sellac are fast, and the streets are crowded, and she is injured. This might well already be lost, but-- this is her responsibility.

"CR-1111 is a traitor," she snaps, slamming through the crowd, not bothering to try to weave around people. "She lured me into a trap, shot me, and is fleeing the scene with the Twi'lek. If they get off-planet, this mission is a failure."

"No!"

"She _shot you?_ "

"But she wouldn't--"

The chatter in her ear is only making this hurt more. It feels like their voices are vibrating in her teeth. "She did," she says.

They shout some more. The gap between her and the fleeing targets only widens-- her leg is slowing her down more than it should. Her voice cuts through the chaos. "Is anyone else close enough to make it to the port?"

The answer, after some babbling confusion, is _no._

She is alone.

Aces, she thinks, would have been able to get here in time.

 

At the crowded spaceport, she finds them by their panicked shouting. It takes time to get a ship in the air, after all.

CR-1161 stops, in the midst of the crowds, and lines up her shot.

Aces is not frantic like the others. Her voice rings out clear and loud over the buzz of the port. She's stressed, impatient, but she's not falling apart like the people around her.

She inhales.

So does Ghost.

Their eyes meet across the room, and Aces stops moving entirely. She looks at her, steady and breathless, and her mouth twitches into a crooked half-smile. She lifts her hand to her ear.

"Take the shot," she says.

Ghost clenches her jaw. Her hands start shaking again-- or maybe they never stopped. She can't let herself say anything. She has to kill her.

_kill her kill her kill her_

Ghost swallows around a painful lump in her throat, turns, and shoots Sellac in the head instead.

The mission is-- technically speaking-- complete.

 

***

 

After she tells them what happened, they tell her what happened back. She listens, straight-backed and silent and staring straight ahead. They explain:

She should have known.

She should have reported her years ago.

The warning signs were there, and she chose not to see them. When she saw them, she chose not to report them. Blinded by feelings she knew she wasn't allowed to have, she let herself be led astray. She knowingly allowed a dangerous poison to insinuate itself into her squad. She lied. She broke the rules.

She's practically a traitor herself. It was her responsibility to stop this from happening. As the leader of her squad, as the person closest to her, as an agent of the First Order, she has failed. Spectacularly. This is why they have rules. This is why they're told to report these things.

This is just what happens. This was always what was going to happen. How else could it have ended? What else could have happened? It was always going to end like this.

"Did it hurt?" one of them asks her.

"Yes," she says.

"How much?"

She digs her fingernails into her palms underneath the table, where no one can see, and keeps her voice even. "Quite a bit," she says.

"Yes. You see, you could have been spared that pain. It didn't have to be this way. I want you to understand that that pain that you felt was caused, entirely, by your actions. You chose this. You did this."

"I understand," she says.

They take away her squad and send her to reconditioning.

 

It's a relief, to have someone tell her what to do. Here is what she has to do: cut out the affection like a cancer. Any scrap of feeling for CR-1111 must be discarded. They won't wipe her memory; how else could she learn from this mistake?

 Pain numbs. Numbness sharpens to emptiness. Emptiness is workable.

It's a relief, to be hollowed out and filled back up again with something correct.

Affection is worse than useless. It is harmful. It is irrational. It is chaos.

Now she knows better.

She is still half a person.

 

***

 

She stands at attention and introduces herself. "CR-1161."

It ends there. There is no intake of breath, no body pressing too close to her side, no cheerful drawl. No one corrects her. No one has anything to add. The silence has a shape. The nothingness casts a shadow. When she turns, no one turns with her.

That's fine.

 

***

 

Because she is the best, CR-1161 still becomes an Inquisitor. She's promoted, and promoted again. She is the best at what she does, after all. When there's nothing getting in between her and her duty, she executes it flawlessly.

Everyone is terrified of her, towering and sharp-faced and pale as she is. Even with her helmet on, she cuts a commanding figure.

"Someone of your rank ought to have a name," General Hux says.

"Should they," she says, not bothering to put in enough intonation to make it a question.

"Yes," he says firmly. "What about a nod to your childhood nickname? Something like... Phasma."

"Fine," she says.

He purses his lips, annoyed. "You're just going to accept that? It's the first thing I thought of. It's not a very good name."

She does not tell him that Ghost wasn't a very good name, either.

"It doesn't really matter that much."

Names are, after all, disposable. People pick them up as they go, carry them, and put them away when they don't fit any more. _Phasma_ is as good a name as any.

They call her Phasma. It sticks.


End file.
